Reparation Between Gentlemen
by Wai-Jing Waraugh
Summary: Vicomte de Tournay has not forgot his quarrel with Blakeney at Dover. Now he is set to marry, and so is even more determine to regain his honour. He corners Percy at a garden party, and requests that the other give him 'reparation'- that is, a sword duel.
1. Chapter 1: The Turkey and The Bantam

_Author's Note: Based on chapters 3-6 of the original novel, though this story actually takes place sometime post-'Pimpernel', pre-'Elusive'._

_None of the characters belong to me; all were created by Baroness Orczy._

_There are a few more chapters to come, so stay tuned, and please, enjoy!_

_~ W.J._

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**Reparation Between Gentlemen**

**Chapter 1: The Turkey and the Bantam**

On the grounds of a grandiose estate inRichmond, beneath an arbour of late-blooming roses, a pair of lovers stood, their dainty silhouette framed by a flower-laden archway.

The fragrant blooms were lovely indeed, but they could not compare to the beauty of the lady, with her halo of chestnut curls, her warm brown eyes bedewed with tears, looking very like a grieving woodland fairy. Nor could the twisting boughs of the thorned vine compete for strength with the resilient young gentleman who stood at her side, dressed irreproachably in a delicately embroidered waistcoat in the most fashionable hue of the times. They were a fine-looking couple as they stood there, he dressed in his courtly finery, a very adult form of dignity in every line of his young frame; she in her simple muslin frock and lace cap, fresh and innocently childlike. They were from opposite sides of the Channel, these two; yet the fine, sharp lines of the Gallic face somehow complimented the rounder, softer features of the Anglo-Saxon. Beneath the filmy lace of his sleeve cuff, his hand was stiffly clenched upon the hilt of the fine sword at his waist, even as she clasped her own slender hands before her in appealing supplication, and said:

"Please don' go, milor'! This be folly, and t'ain't worth riskin' yer life over!"

Her sweet, uncultured country voice flowed forth with an undercurrent of sorrow, of aching fearfulness. He wavered visibly, moved by her touching concern despite himself; then the firm brow reasserted its hard line, the mouth tightened, his whole countenance becoming set with determination.

"But I must go, cherie, I must." His expression softened for a moment. "But have a leetle faith in myself, ma chère; the blackguard has not got my life yet." Though he spoke in competent English, he faltered slightly over his words, and his foreign accent was clearly perceptible, slightly rolling his consonants and exaggerating his vowels.

Still the tears gathered in the dear girl's eyes. "I 'ave faith milor'; I do hold out hope. But even if you win, sir, should you be caught, it'd spell yer ruin. Yer a strong one, sirrah, but you ain't been over 'ere long; you don' know this man like we local folk do. Despite all 'is faults, sir, he's not one to be taken lightly; the man is the Prince's close friend, an' he's got pals in all the 'igher up circles. What's more, he looks to 'ave all the strength of an ox, an' they say that at fencin' he-"

"He might be as accomplished as the legendary D'artagnan," the young man said gravely, himself possessed of a fine Gascon sense of pride, "but still, though his arm might wield the guile of Artemis and the strength of Thor, I must take up my sword against him."

At these words the poor lass uttered a loud sob and buried her face in her apron. Without so much as blinking, he gazed steadily down at her, not fazed by her tears as an Englishman might have been. Despite his steely resolve, his was an ardent French heart, with the capacity to feel as much passion as any woman.

"I do not ask that you understand, _mon amour_," he said to her, tenderly. "This thing I must do iz connected to mine honour. I should not think to request my papa and maman's blessing for our marriage, if I did not first achieve zis thing. If I so easily swallowed mine pride, I would not think myself fit to hold your leetle hand." And so saying, he took her hand and, with the courtly ceremony of the time, he kissed her barest fingertips. Pretty Sally was not of aristocratic birth; she was a lowly kitchen wench and serving maid at a prosperous, yet still very humble, roadside establishment. That this fine gentleman – a French Vicomte, no less – should stoop to kiss her hand… why, for a moment the girl ceased even to cry, so overawed was she by the incredible love she had inspired in this fiery, noble heart.

"I pray for yer safety, milor'," she said softly, when he had dropped her hand and she had again sufficient wits to speak.

"_A __çà,_ mademoiselle, I have no fear for myself, so long as I have your gentle thoughts following me. If I win, I lay my pride down at your dear feet; if not, I fall a man of honour, who was in some way worthy of your affection. And now, a_dieu_, ma chère."

With a last wistful glance, he turned on his heel and strode purposefully out of the arbour. She remained, watering the flowers with yet more tears, looking after him with a feverish gaze. She could still see him now where he waited, pacing up and down the avenue of yew trees like a caged animal, longing to pounce. He circled up and down several times, his pace becoming ever swifter with impatience; then, a firm tread was heard crunching on gravel. He stopped stock still, tensing at the sound; beneath the nodding sprays of roses, Sally gasped and turned towards its source.

A man was coming down the avenue. Unlike the young Vicomte's nervous tread, his gait was completely casual and unhurried. In contrast to the slim, lithe form of the Frenchman, this man was massively built, broad of shoulder and of towering height, even for an Englishman. Indeed, even the impetuous Vicomte may have felt intimidated, if it weren't for the affected, mincing gait of the slender, elegantly-shod feet; the impudently cheery tune hummed by the foolish lips; the lazy, almost imbecilic expression which dulled the heavy-lidded blue eyes. This whole person was clothed in the epitome of fabulous taste; even Sally's loyal, affectionate gaze could not refrain from passing with admiration over the cream suit, extravagantly cut in the 'Incroyable' style, with its over-large lapels swinging either side of an artistically-arrayed cravat, the pale satin of the whole outfit shimmering like a single moonbeam in the summer twilight.

The most fastidious fop in all ofLondonwas on a collision course with the most fiery, affront sense of pride the good noblesse ofFrancehad left to offer.

The Englishman advanced leisurely down the avenue, then, seeing the Vicomte standing in the shadow of the trees, his heavy features registered mild surprised. He came to an uncertain halt, remaining a polite distance away from the youth, whose countenance had become all the more warlike at his arrival.

"You are in recept of my message, Monsieur," the Vicomte said stiffly, since the Englishman seemed to be courteously waiting for the other to speak first.

"Indeed, sir!" he said at last in his inimitable, drawly tones. "So you are the good author of that curious epistle! You are a good deal younger than I imagined my correspondent to be! Beg pardon, but I am not familiar with thine name, my good, erm, Turney-"

"Tournay!" the Vicomte corrected him curtly, his fine, white aristocratic face, which was already suffused with heat, now turning a truly livid hue.

"La! Quite so, my good Viscount… erm, Tournay," the Englishman reiterated with a shy laugh, looking genuinely apologetic. "Do excuse me, I never could cotton to foreign names…"

"And yet," uttered the youth, who was all but shuddering in his violent effort to reign in his temper, "your wife had no trouble in pronounzing the name 'St Cyr' before the Revolutionary Tribunal…"

"But it is not to be wondered at, sir," rejoined the other blandly, "for she is a Frenchwoman by birth, and what is more happens to be in possession of a particularly clever tongue. I do wish I could 'parlour francay' half as well as you newly-landed Frenchies manage to imitate our dull old British phrases."

His countenance becoming ever stormier, Tournay asked through clenched teeth: "You do not object to your wife's demnation of an innocent man to death, Monsieur Blakeney?"

Seemingly oblivious of the Vicomte's wrath, Sir Percy shrugged his elegantly-clad shoulders. "I wish to confer death on very few men in this world, Vicomte – yourself excluded from that few, of course – but my wife's fancies are quite her own, and I fain interfere in her affairs. A trick that you would do well to employ when you yourself seek matrimony, sir."

But this last comment, seemingly so callously and unwittingly delivered, was too much for the Vicomte, with the eyes of his English sweetheart in the rose arbour still upon him. With a fierce gesture, he drew his sword from the scabbard and brandished it at Sir Percy.

"Monsieur," he said tersely, his expression utterly dark, "in order to regain mine honour and zat of my muther, I must seek from you the only reparation possible between gentlemen."

It was a belated rematch between the French bantam and the English turkey.

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_Edit: I have now attempted to correct some of the faulty French which was previously in this chapter. I hope it's better, and sorry for any mistakes which might still me in there - I don't speak French!_


	2. Chapter 2: En Garde!

_Author's note: I should add a disclaimer. Embarrassing to admit though it is, I do not actually know any French! My thanks to Slytherinsal, who was good enough to notice some mistakes in the previous chapter and help me to correct them. There is more French in this chapter, and still more to come in later chapters. I tried my best, using online translators, but there is a good chance that these will also be wrong. I apologize in advance, and if anyone sees any grievous mistakes, please let me know!_

_Also, I found another mistake in the previous chapter. I had the Vicomte mention D'artagnan, of Three Musketeers fame; however, Dumas didn't right that novel until many years later (in fact, he wrote several novels that were set in the same time as the Pimpernel stories). So the Vicomte could not possibly have known about D'Artagnan, some fifty years before 'The Three Musketeers' was written! Whoops! Let's just assume that the D'Artagnan he mentions is the real historical figure, Charles de Batz Castelmore d'Artagnan, on whom Dumas based his character. (I think Orczy briefly mentioned musketeers in 'I Will repay' - so there!)_

_Poor language skills and historical inaccuracies aside, please enjoy - I'm sorry that the next chapter took so long!_

_~ W. J._

_Edit: my thanks to Artemis XIII, who gave me the information on the real D'Artagnan, and who told me that my line of French was correct - but the chapter's title was spelt wrong! I guess I dodged the hunter but fell into the snare. It is fixed now. Also, some people have told me that the Vicomte's name is 'de Tournay', not just 'Tournay' as I have written. However, I am using the traditional convention of omitting the 'de' when you refer to someone by surname alone, without a title (since 'de' translated as 'of', it makes sense). So, on with the newly-corrected chapter, without further ado!_

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**Chapter 2: En Garde!**

Sir Percy's heavy eyebrows rose up towards his crown of fair hair; his lazy eyes widened in wonderment as they followed the glittering line of the bare blade. "Do all Frenchmen entertain themselves with such energetic and dangerous pursuits? My good Viscount, when I came here in answer to your most eloquently-written summons, I had no intention of accepting your challenge. I find that challenges are best avoided – beastly uncomfortable things, these old-fashioned duels, which is why, I suppose, they have gone quite out of style. You may not be aware of this, sir, since you are newly arrived in our fair land, but it is strictly forbidden, by royal decree, to engage in a duel upon English soil. I suggest you shake the habit, sir, and concern yourself with another sort of engagement."

Each unconscious reference to the poor man's marital wishes seemed like coarse salt poured onto an open wound. "Zat I cannot do, monsieur," he said heatedly. "Mine honour dictates zat I must seek reparation from you for my wounded pride. Refugee though I am in your land, monsieur, I cannot build a future in your good country with mine and my family's honour already trampled so low in ze mud upon our very arrival."

"You will build a very fine future here, dear fellow, if you have already learned to speak the lingo thus; your language is quite exquisite. On the other hand," Blakeney added rather dryly, "you will have very little future if you insist on duelling with your hosts on their own grounds, at their very own garden parties."

He indeed brought to the Vicomte's attention the precariousness of his current situation. To threaten an unarmed man on his very own estate, at the very occasion to which his host had invited him - which was to say nothing of the conventions of the time, which strictly forbade duels from being instigated, even between noble gentlemen. Sir Percy was a renowned society figure; at any moment, his other guests might come along, seeking out their absent host. The Prince of Wales himself was in attendance, and if the Vicomte were to be caught in this hostile attitude, the repercussions for him would be extremely unpleasant…

However, young Tournay's blood was already ignited with anger and with love; these two turbulent forces combined to make the youth feel invincible, even in the face of such an immense and influential adversary. "I have no intention of accepting refusal, Monsieur. I suggest you draw, else you fall as a coward where you stand." Whilst he spoke, he took a second sword from his belt, a duplicate of his own, and tossed it at the feet of the Englishman.

"You will not have it any other way, my dear Vicomte?" Blakeney asked, his looks and tone finally becoming a trifle more serious.

"_Non_, monsieur," the other replied, reverting to his native tongue in his overmastering determination. His opponent's only reply to this grim vision was to again shrug nonchalantly, like a man merely humouring the will of the inevitable; he bent gracefully at the waist and lifted the sword from the ground.

"If you think I be unfair, Monsieur," Tournay suggested, still willing to uphold the conventions of duelling etiquette despite his apparent hostility, "You might have your choice of the two swords, so you know zat neither is defected…"

"Bah! One sword is as good to me as any other," Blakeney retorted carelessly. The Vicomte scowled, but remained silent. The pair of swords was his father's; both were priceless heirlooms of the finest forging, passed down through the family for generations. They had been brought to England on the Vicomte's own person, on that danger-fraught journey from bloodthirsty Paris. He almost winced to see one of his family's few remaining treasures being held by such a boorish hand.

"Well, sir," Sir Percy said, still in measured tones despite the situation, "since you would insist on doing me the honour; as they say in your country, _en garde_!" And he drew the sword with an ease which surprised Tournay, giving him the very first vague inkling of what he had truly come up against.

The first few clashes of the swords did not worry the Vicomte very much; however, as though this first engagement had been a mere test of his form, or else a means to lull him into a false confidence, he began to find himself being pressed increasingly hard. The Vicomte had the swiftness and agility of youth; and yet, the English gentleman moved with a speed which betrayed his lumbering size. What was more, strength was assuredly on his side. The Vicomte could feel that with each parry and thrust, the force of his opponent's arm was ever increasing, wearing down the youth's own, comparatively paltry, reserves of stamina. Though the summer sun had now almost set, making way for the coolness of evening, the younger combatant found it to be very hot work. The Englishman was elusive in his retreat, and a reckonable force in his riposte.

The English turkey was proving to be a falcon in disguise.

The French bantam found himself rather taken aback. He had expected that due to Sir Percy's considerable size, his opponent might have caused him some initial trouble; but given the man's universally acknowledge buffoonery, the Vicomte had been confident that he could soon outmanoeuvre such a dullard by battling with wit. However, Blakeney seemed an indefatigable combatant, and one of immense skill, able to recognize every feign and counter-parry Tournay might attempt, returning each with a precise stroke of his own. The Vicomte's ability, though substantial, was nevertheless limited by his inexperience; as both the instigating party, and the party with most to lose by his defeat, his actions became increasingly audacious, to his own detriment. At one point, a sweeping cut from Sir Percy's blade came perilously close; it sliced a single lace ruffle from the edge of the Vicomte's sleeve. This seemed to galvanize the young Frenchman into an ever-more desperate bid to gain the upper hand. His attacks became wilder, as he attempted with each thrust to bring the duel to a swift conclusion. Blakeney, however, seemed to divine his every move in advance, and the match wore on, gradually taking its toll on both his strength and his nerves.

All the while, pretty Sally watched from the rose arbour with bated breath, her hands to her face and many times peering through her fingers, barely daring to watch. When Sir Percy's blade sliced a fragment from her lover's sleeve, the maiden smothered a shriek of terror in her throat; a terrible feeling of foreboding seemed to linger over her. It looked inevitable that her beloved would lose; and yet, even if he were to win, the price of wounding, perhaps even killing, the famed Sir Percy Blakeney would lead to a fate much the same. Whatever the outcome, it could be naught but disastrous for her proud lover.

The end came soon enough. The Vicomte, his endurance swiftly waning, made one last strength-consuming lunge; his strike met no resistance and, stumbling forward, he measured his length upon the ground. He instantly struggled to one knee, but looked up just in time to see a sword hilt, and the fist that held it, hurtling down toward his prone head.

Pretty Sally could bear no more. Unbeknownst to her, another figure had lingered in the arbour just behind her, unseen and unheard from where she had stood, transfixed by each flash of blades in the gathering dusk. Only half-felt through her fainting senses, a pair of gentle hands was there to catch her as she fell.

The Vicomte waited for the finishing blow to fall with gritted teeth; however, it never came. Confused, he raised his head, and found his opponent's sword hilt poised above his head, as though about to strike him. The graceful hand, which many ladies of the court so loved to pet and praise for its beauty, was now curled tightly in a hard fist. Tournay had a good view of it from his position; and he saw quite plainly, upon the second-to-last finger, a gold signet ring, consisting of a flat gold shield emblazoned with a single design – a flower with five pointed petals, done in red enamel.

The Vicomte's inner thoughts were instantly thrown into turmoil. The sight of that simple device recalled for him so many emotions. It represented so much that he owed on behalf of himself and his family to a miraculous and mysterious entity: the notorious Scarlet Pimpernel. The appearance of this symbol upon the hand of his own self-declared nemesis – particularly when the Vicomte remembered that Blakeney derided the nation's great hero at every given opportunity, yet another way in which the man regularly invoked his ire – it only made him still more puzzled.

Then, as though to even more completely stun his young opponent, dissipating any doubts which might remain in Tournay's torturously chaotic mind, a nearby voice said, with Sir Percy's drawling tone, yet in perfect French:

"Cédez, mon jeune ami; cette folie est allée assez loin."

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_Author's note: since I fear that anyone who uses an online translator (or indeed, actually speaks French) will get a different result to what i intended, that last line is supposed to read: "Yield, my young friend; this foolishness has gone far enough."_


	3. Chapter 3: A Falcon in Disguise

_Author's note: Here we are! Sorry for the delay. I actually put off posting this chapter, because it has the most French of them all, and since my language skills are no better than when I started this tale, I have no means of determining whether I have made another error or not. Again, please send me any necessary corrections, and if I got it wrong, I shall blame the online translator._

_From general feedback in reviews, a few people have wondered why Sally would fall for a foreign Vicomte (or why the latter's fancy would develop before an appreciative perve, for that matter). I didn't weave that into the story; I may do so yet, but since the whole story has been finished but unpublished for a long time now, I doubt I'll get back to it. When I started thinking about it, I got a few theories in mind - I imagine his upheaval has taught the Vicomte to not take anything for granted, making him far more predisposed to a love found in a place and class which may havebeen inconceivable before his fall. This, paradoxically combined with his fastidious devotion to the traditional manners of his class, may have endeared him to Sally, who, though she has associated with the brightest luminaries of British society, is nevertheless only ever sene by them as 'the kitchen maid'. With his high ideals toppled and himself humbled, the Vicomte treats Sally like a queen; whilst Sally has discovered, to her surprise, that she is worth so much to someone who has lost almost everything._

_That description turned out far more elaborate than expected it; having now written it, I think maybe it would have been good enough to include in the body of the story (maybe I will, if I can find a place for it). However, I leave it to you to imagine the lover's initial union for yourself. Love works in mysterious ways, having no real consideration for racial or class boundaries; I'm sure some true love stories are far more unlikely than any fiction I, or even the Baroness, could ever invent._

_But I've already probably said too much on the matter._

_There is one more chapter to come after this, but in the meantime - enjoy!_

_~ W.J._

_Edit: Thank you CinderGirl2012 for all your language suggestions, I've implemented them all! Both characters needed to sound like fluent natural French speakers (unlike me!) so your guidance was just what I needed :)_

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**Chapter 3: A Falcon in Disguise**

The Vicomte froze, as dazed and disabled as if the fist itself had actually struck him senseless. When he had recovered himself somewhat, he managed to say: "Mais vous parlez français!"*

"Bien entendu,**" was the immediate, somewhat bemused response. "But of course, my dear Vicomte. By necessity you were ignorant of it at the time, but in fact we met for the first time, you and I, in the midst of Paris."

'In the midst of Paris…'

How that phrase conjured such nightmarish visions before the Vicomte's eyes! For that was what those days had been: a veritable living nightmare. The family's tranquil life of the past had soon seemed but a dream, compared to the fiendish apparitions which had overrun the country, wrenching their dignified monarchs from their thrones and delightedly tramping hundreds of years of noble history into the blood-soaked dirt of their defiled land. The Tournays had hoped that reason would soon be restored, but to no avail. Inevitably, the denouncement had come; to their utmost despair, their beloved patriarch, the Comte de Tournay, had been torn from them by rough, callous hands. Worst of all, his mother and sister had been victims to every outrage and indignity which could be imposed upon gentlewomen, and he, who by birthright had once commanded a legion of servants and peasantry subjects, had been utterly powerless to protect them, reduced by the mobs to the ineffectual status of a mere child. The pain, the humiliation of being unable to protect that which, in his father's absence, had been entrusted to him as his most precious burden-! And he had been able to do nothing –_nothing!_ – as oaths and abuse and ribald jests had been heaped upon the ladies and himself… how it had made him burn with a keen shame which, to his sensitive young soul, had far surpassed in its pain even the sharpest blade of the guillotine…

Perhaps it was little wonder, then, that in order to make amends, the youth had challenged even London's most dearly beloved dandy to a duel at the slightest provocation…

And then, in the depths of suffocating despair, the thunderclap had come to strike at their enemies; that firm, resolute voice, speaking to them of hope and seeming to reach them from the merciful heights of heaven itself, had said to them…

"Stay!" cried the Vicomte, suddenly flooded with a new emotion; he reached out and clutched at the elegant wrist that still held the heavy sword-hilt aloft above his own head. "Repeat those words you said! Those words he – le Mouron Rouge – that _you_ said as you snatched us very nearly from the tumbrel itself!"

Looking down at that pale, earnest face, its dark eyes full of the gravest seriousness, Sir Percy chuckled and said, still in flawless French: "But it wasn't half as close as that, my dear fellow! That day in that miserable, deserted back-alley, when my comrades and I liberated you from the clutches of those brutish gendarmes, I do believe I said to you:

"'Prenez courage, mes bons de Tourneys; confiez-vous à mes amis et à moi et dans les trois jours vous serez tous parvenus à la sécurité de l'Angleterre.'"***

At these words, so plainly and unpretentiously spoken, the fine sword, the prize of the Tournay family which the Vicomte had convulsively kept clutched in his hand, fell unheeded to the ground beside him.

He had never expected to again see his intriguing rescuer somewhere in England, for all he knew that the man was an Englishman himself. The Pimpernel had appeared like a phantom, saved them in such an audacious and courageous manner, then faded back into obscurity just as suddenly, leaving them wondering if they had merely imagined his presence. The Vicomte had hoped, like all those who arrived safe from across the channel, to someday meet his gallant deliverer once again; he had hoped, but never dreamed… never had he thought… had he ever even dared to _imagine_… and in the guise of _this man_, of all Englishmen!...

The French bantam had met a fearsome falcon indeed: the very same falcon who had freed him from the talons of the Revolution's vultures.

"Oh! Oh, Monseigneur!" cried the lad, suddenly overwhelmed by an all-new form of shame; he grasped at the fine white hand like a man trying to save himself from drowning, and with utmost reverence, he kissed the gold seal ring that bore the emblem of that great hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel.

"Steady, lad!" chuckled Sir Percy, reverting abruptly to English and not seeming to take the slightest notice of the Vicomte's devoted gesture. "Have a care! I still have your demned sword in my hand. You'll do yourself an injury, lunging at me like that, and I should hate to hurt a lad like yourself, however unintentionally. Lud! But these fine blades look better in their decorative sheaths, what?" Gently disengaging his hand, he slid the sword smoothly back into its sheath and held it out towards the Vicomte. The poor young man stared at it dumbly, as though the finely-wrought scabbard, adorned here and there with embellishments of gold thread, were a venomous snake which might strike at his hands should he dare reach out.

Centuries of proud Tournay heritage were now forgotten, laying amidst the dust beneath the yew trees; the Vicomte was but a lad who now knew that he had unwittingly struck out at the man whom he owed so much. "But it is _you_ whom _I_ might have injured, Monseigneur!" he moaned in a paroxysm of misery.

Sir Percy laughed the merry, ringing laugh for which he was famous. "La, sir, bless your soul for worrying yourself about my clumsy person! But I do like an opportunity to play with a bit of steel now and then. I'm loath to exert myself too much, but on occasion, it is a most amusing pastime. Quite a useful skill as well," he added ruefully, no doubt recalling to himself the threatening sabre of a pursuing gendarme, only fended off by his amazing skill and deftly-honed battle instincts. "But do take heart, sir," he added softly, in a far less flippant tone of voice; for he saw that the poor Vicomte was on the verge of collapsing under a violent storm of emotion, hot tears swiftly gathering in his dark eyes.

"Had I but known, Monseigneur!" he uttered shamefacedly, shuddering as he recalled his actions of the past half-hour, in light of this new significance. "Had I but known, I never would have even thought to-!"

"No, you didn't think much, my fine friend," Sir Percy said, not unkindly. "But really, who can blame you? You are young, and you are amidst a time of great upheaval, wishing to prove yourself to the standards of old, which have been so callously swept aside by a new breed of murderous superiors. Had you but lived a few decades earlier, sir, you would have been held in high regard by the noblesse of your fair country. And then, unsettling your true nature even more, you are a man in love. Such circumstances conspire to make even the most self-possessed men act unlike themselves." He spoke with a wealth of knowledge behind his words. "I didn't want you to know," he continued, "and so you didn't. But now you _do_ know, and this fine folly can now cease, so long as you don't let anyone else know about it!"

The Vicomte still shook his head, disgusted with himself. "But it is inexcusable, sir! That I should have dared to raise a sword against you – against le Mouron Rouge! – when it is to you that I owe everything, my own life and liberty, the safety of my family, all that I have here in your fine land-"

"Zounds, sir! But still you deceive yourself," Blakeney said, patting Tournay companionably on the shoulder. "You say it is inexcusable; I must protest, for it is in my power to excuse you, and indeed I do so, most heartily and with the utmost sincerity! Nor is all you have here solely by my making, or even that of my fine devoted friends and followers, dear Vicomte; for I bethought I saw the loving eyes of pretty Sally watching your every move from the rose arbour. Her devotion to your fine self had nothing to do with me, I assure you."

Now the gaze of both men turned towards the arbour; and for a moment, Sir Percy's lips parted in surprise, his lazy eyes lighting up with a vigorous, joyous glint, as he observed another figure there by pretty Sally's side. The maid was bashfully stammering her apologies to the person who had caught her in her dead-faint, whilst Marguerite Blakeney laughed off the poor girl's faltering excuses, a look of understanding and immense kindness in her intelligent blue eyes.

Sally's amazement at the proximity of her Ladyship was understandable, for Marguerite Blakeney was renowned throughout the social spheres of Europe. Though she had put in numerous appearances at the Fisherman's Rest, and often mingled freely with the common folk at public fetes, she had always been admired by the English peasantry from afar. She looked a most impressive figure on this occasion: her tall, slender frame enveloped in a gossamer gown of pale chiffon, all gilded with glimmering silver edges, scattered here and there with luminous pearls and with a strand of them wound around the tender pink roses in her hair. She paid no heed to Sally's protestations, clasping the girl's elbow to keep her upright and all the while making some light, comforting remark. To the men, they presented a winsome picture; a pretty woodland fairy and a stately Queen Titania, standing there among the roses.

"Some actions have unforeseeable consequences," said Sir Percy, with a quietude and reservedness that was uncharacteristic of him. "My wife – bless her dear soul! – once denounced the Marquis St Cyr in order to reinstate her own pride; and that of her poor brother, who was all the family left to her and who had been grievously mistreated by the Marquis, back in the times of the old regime. Little did she know, in those early days, before the unmitigated terror of the age burst forth from the pits of hell, just what consequences her careless words would have. Do try to imagine, dear sir, the indescribable horror she must have felt when she, poor kindly creature, realized that she had, with her own dainty hand, signed the death sentence of a man; a man whom she indeed hated, yet certainly didn't wish death upon. Actions have consequences, sir; and as actions cannot be retracted once they are performed, nor can all consequences be prevented, however much we might yearn for them to be undone. However, some consequences can be allayed, and actions forgiven, if both parties are willing."

Thus Sir Percy spoke, softly and personably, in the still of that sultry summer evening. They were too far away for the ladies to catch their words; however, the Vicomte heard each and every one, and as they were spoken in plain, fluent French, he understood them all. More than that, he truly _understood_. The Scarlet Pimpernel – Sir Percy Blakeney – that daring champion of the persecuted _aristos_, had given Marguerite St Just his forgiveness for a terrible wrong that had been unwittingly committed. There was also the forgiveness that he, the Vicomte himself, so sorely needed, and which Blakeney was now giving him, for this comparatively minor slight which had seen two men grappling with swords in the dusk.

"If monsieur is satisfied," Tournay said in barely a whisper, his young voice choked with emotion.

"Nay, sir!" declared Sir Percy, reverting to his broad English drawl, "I shan't be satisfied til I've had a glass of cool punch, for fencing practice is a thirsty caper, and the punch bowl will have assuredly grown quite hot by now, having stood amidst a knot of warm-blooded revellers all afternoon. What say you take the arm of your pretty Sally and go fetch her a cup, since she seems half-parched and fit to faint from the heat?"

He helped the Vicomte to his feet, generously attempting to brush some of the dust from the latter's costume, using the filmy tips of his own extravagant sleeve as a makeshift clothes-brush. Then, side by side, they followed the avenue of yews back to the rose-twined arbour. Within minutes, poor dear Sally, forgetting any notions of propriety, had thrown her arms around the Vicomte and was mussing his cravat with sweet tears of relief. The Vicomte received them with no evidence of shame, despite having found defeat at the hands of the Englishman, and his sweetheart having plainly witnessed it; pride had at last learned how to bend before love and loyalty.

Having reassured his lady, the Vicomte then went to his hostess, and, making the ceremonial bow which the etiquette of the time demanded, he kissed her hand with all the respect and consideration a gentlewoman of her standing required. Lady Blakeney, seeing that the young Tournay no longer bore a grudge against her, directed a most charming, appreciative smile at the youth. Sir Percy was in turn giving his courtly salutations to the maiden, making poor Sally again flush scarlet at this gorgeous display of gallantry. Then Sally was once again free to take possession of her Vicomte, whilst Lady Blakeney glided silently to her husband's arm.

She said no words to him, but her eyes spoke volumes; nor did he say anything, but let his eyes in turn ravish her dainty form, as though they would with their hungry gaze devour her sweet self, past sins and all.

* * *

For philistines like myself, here is a translation of what the above French passages (hopefully) say:

* "But you can speak French!"

** "But of course,"

*** "Take heart, my good Tourneys; entrust yourselves to my friends and I, and within three days, you shall all reach the safety of England."


End file.
